


The Secrets We Keep

by CateAdams



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Character Study, Christine's POV, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CateAdams/pseuds/CateAdams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of "Return To Tomorrow", Spock and Christine have a revealing conversation regarding the Vulcan's relationship with his captain. (Christine's POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secrets We Keep

 

     By the time I reach my quarters my hands are shaking and my head is pounding. I want to cry; I desperately want to cry, but I keep picturing his hand reaching for my face as I wept before, that time in his quarters, and I can’t bring myself to do it. Even here, in the silence and solitude, in the pleasant near-darkness that holds so many of my closely kept secrets, I am reluctant to let this one slip.

     Sickbay had been like a tomb: hollow and cold. Leonard had fussed incessantly until even I had pulled away from his attentions, but I could understand his obsession. Sargon and Thalassa had gone, and left nothing but unease and the ghost of profound loss behind. My own mind, flush with dopamine in the wake of Henoch’s tampering, had flourished with rosy romanticism until the initial shock had faded and my memories returned in full. Until I sat on a biobed and watched Spock’s bowed head and the captain’s desperate, longing stare and knew, finally _knew_ , what had previously been confined to the whisperings of shipboard gossip.

     And so ended my own fantasies. I wouldn’t have called them hopes, not after the revelation of T’Pring. I wouldn’t have called them dreams either, after seeing his mother and the rigid cultural structure of Vulcan spousal dynamics. Fantasies fit, though: images conjured late at night of how he might taste, of his scent on my pillowcase. Of his strength and his gentleness, and how he might feel between my legs. I cringe now, knowing the truth, having seen and sensed his mind and knowing that my own shameful secret is all too similar to his.

     Alone in my quarters, I pull the pins from my hair and run my hands through it, closing my eyes and still fighting tears. Now, outside of the veil of mental control, I remember the sensations that had been opaque to me at the time. Spock had fought against me, initially, when our minds were brought together. I had seemed, in his distressed and confused state, all too similar to another who had idolized him and approached him, and who had ultimately forced him when his mind was affected by alien spores. That situation had not been his choice, or this, and he had struggled against me and against Sargon until a thought emerged and repeated: _This, for Jim. Endure, for Jim_. Sargon had known immediately, and I know now. Our minds were together for minutes at the most, but I know. I know too much.

     I’ve always been a woman of two faces, two sides; in that Spock and I are similar. An outward face, competent and strong and slightly cold, and an inner, hidden, face, wrought with emotion, warm and yearning for a kindred soul. For a long time, I simply accepted my own inner suppression and then I realized that even in this I was trying to protect and care for others over myself. With Roger, I had maintained my cool exterior, my devotion to the job, and the oversight of his lab while he took an extended leave to proceed with that fateful, fatal mission. Roger had bid me farewell, given me a ring, entrusted me with his research and left, and I had held my head up and refused to cry until I was alone and out of sight. I often wonder what would have happened if I had put my needs first and insisted that he remain. Most likely, he would have gone anyway and I would have been short one rather large diamond.

     I snort indelicately in the silence, feeling hysteria crackle along my thoughts. I need a stiff drink, and I really want to beat the shit out of a pillow, and I settle for throwing my tunic in a ball in the corner, pulling on a pair of old, blue sweats that only I, and Nyota, have ever seen. I walk into the bathroom and wince at my reflection in the mirror. Losing Roger was hard, but time and distance proved that it might have been, as ashamed as I am to admit it, for the best. I left my doctorate and my research position for an Academy-sponsored nursing program as the fastest way to get aboard a starship. And even though my motivations were for the good of another, I found my own calling along the way.

     I found a channel for my feeling, for my caring, for that pent-up passion that I had always hidden. I found it, and let myself free in the process: perhaps a little too free, as I remember my slurred confessions, grabbing at Spock’s hands as the ship plummeted toward Psi-2000. I make a wry face in the mirror and shake my head at myself. Spock reminds me of Roger in many ways: the devotion to duty and single-minded focus on his job, the dark hair and beautiful hands, the competence and curiosity that exudes from his very pores. But Spock is different, too, and in ways that have become more important to me as Roger’s memory grows more distant and my new identity as a nurse and an explorer has become both my shield and my joy.

     Maybe now I know why those differences speak to me; now I see the holes in the Vulcan exterior that should have been as telling as my own ridiculous attempts at flirtation and offerings of _plomeek_ soup. Now, I see through the dark mystery and into a shocking mirror of myself: the two of us—so alike, yearning for something we think we can’t have, giving of ourselves to a singular fault. At least he has a chance at the thing that seems to hover out of reach.

     I splash water on my face and walk back out into my cabin, the tears pushed back to a low burn behind my eyes, sitting down at the computer and punching in the key for my messages, seeing a follow-up from Leonard and a note from Nyota, promising to drop by as soon as her shift is over. I sigh and rub my temples, wanting her company but not entirely sure how much I’m willing to tell her. It’s _inherent_ to me to not want to burden my closest friend, and I have no idea where my need to talk ends and Spock’s own confidence begins.

     I feel a shiver down my spine and I freeze, my head in my hands, and I know the buzzer will sound an instant before it does. _Shit._ I take a breath and let it out slowly, not ready for this but knowing that I probably should have been.

     “Come.”

     The door slides open and he enters, still in his uniform, his hands clasped characteristically behind his back, and even in the low light I can see the broken expression on his face.

     He moves in just far enough to let the door close and I stand immediately, every instinct seeking to comfort and never mind that I’m dead tired and in pain and have just had my own mind hijacked by an alien madman.

     “Mr. Spock. Are you alright?”

     “I am quite well, Miss Chapel.”

     It’s an obvious lie, but we both ignore it. I press my lips together, waiting, knowing that he’s here for a reason. He isn’t looking at me, instead studying the floor, and I am struck by how similar he looks to how he appeared in sickbay, when he hadn’t been able to meet the captain’s gaze.

     “Miss Chapel, I wish to discuss—,” he begins.

     “Christine,” I interrupt. “I mean—.” My own voice trails off and I shrug helplessly.

     Now he meets my eyes, and I can’t look away from the turmoil there.

     “Indeed, Christine. I apologize.” He straightens his shoulders. “Or perhaps I may call you Chris?”

     I can’t help a slight gasp as my childhood nickname passes his lips, and it hits me squarely that his perceptions of my mind have been equal to my perceptions of his own, or, more likely, even deeper. I recognize the tightening of his jaw; he doesn’t want to be rude, but he does want to discuss this, and he is telling me to dispense with human evasion and denial and even pleasantry and to simply say it.

     So I do. “Are you going to tell him?”

     He swallows and lifts his chin. “Negative.”

     I watch him, and see the subtle signs of defiance, the blanking of his expression, the slight narrowing of his eyes. I decide there’s nothing to lose; that he had, in fact, come here for this. “Why not?”

     “It is not logical.”

     His reply is too quick, and I sigh.

     “Your interest is returned, you know.” I watch him carefully. “I should have seen it earlier.” At his silence, I amend, “I guess I did see it, but never put the pieces together.”

     His lips purse and I see him hesitate before he speaks. “May I ask; what did you see?”

     “Nothing _obvious_ ,” I reply, attempting a joke at my own expense.

     His eyebrows draw together and he releases his hands, lifting one slightly to forestall my continuing. “Christine, you are not Leila. You are not my former betrothed. I did not take offense at your…attentions, but I was sincere when I told you that we should not protest against our natures.”

     I raise an eyebrow, deliberately mimicking him, asking dryly, “Is that the problem now? That to tell him would be to protest against your nature?” I know the answer already; I had felt it in his mind: the captain is, to him, as natural a fit as he could ever hope to experience.

     He simply looks at me and I shrug, pressing my fingers again at my pounding temples. “I thought fear was illogical.”

     He steps forward soundlessly, his hand raising again and hovering just in front of me. “What you are experiencing is most likely a consequence of the abrupt disconnection of Henoch’s mind, and of my own. May I—?”

     His words trail off and I let my hands fall to my sides, feeling defeated. “Sure.”

     I close my eyes as his fingers brush my skin, and I can feel his warmth. I don’t know what he’s doing; I can’t feel anything amiss, but my headache has decreased in intensity and I sigh in relief. I open my eyes as his touch leaves me.

     “Thank you.”

     He inclines his head and steps back, and it occurs to me that I know him better than I’ve ever known anyone else, even Roger. I’ve seen him injured, seen his blood, his body, seen him in excruciating pain. I’ve seen him vulnerable and exposed, his mind not his own. I’ve sensed his thoughts, and I feel a deep kinship with him that is hard to put into words. We are, surprisingly, so similar, and I wonder what advice I would give myself.

     My eyes flicker over his face as I consider my words, and I begin slowly, “When I decided to be a nurse, I went into it not expecting,” I wave my hands, “any of this. I didn’t do it for anything but a sense of duty and as the best possible option at the time for somehow maybe finding Roger again.”

     I pause, and I see that he’s listening intently. “It was only after I started that I realized that this work was my true, _natural_ calling after all. And I never would have found it except for circumstances that seemed to force my hand.”

     I lick my lips. “Before we reached Babel, I overheard your mother talking with your father about your decision to join Starfleet. About how it was something that you needed to do because of the circumstances at the time.”

     He lifts his chin and I hold up my hand quickly. “Now, I don’t know what really happened, but my point is that sometimes things conspire to bring us to where we need to be. Call it luck, or call it fate, or just call it happenstance, but when we recognize something important, something irreplaceable and precious, something natural, we— _you_ — should take advantage of it.”

     He runs a hand over his chin, folding his other arm across his chest. “Taking advantage, however, is the issue.”

     I snort, and his eyes dart to me as I raise my hands helplessly. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

     “We are…friends. He does not know—.”

     I cut in, “He does.” I run my hands through my hair again. “The more I think about it, the more I see: how he looks at you, his voice, the way he touches you.” I meet his eyes directly. “The way he willingly almost gave up his career for you. And all those hours at your bedside.”

     He blinks. “You, also, stayed by my bedside.”

     “Yeah,” I say flippantly, and raise my eyebrows.

     He hums and I continue quickly, if only to dispel difficult memories of his pale form lying in sickbay so often over the past two years. “I can admit to jealousy, but I’m not telling you this to set you up.”

     “I would never think that of you, Christine.” He says it so solemnly, and I blush.

     He takes a breath. “I must meditate, to restore my control. I shall consider your words.”

     I nod, and he bows slightly. “And I must thank you, for your accommodation of my mind. I owe you my life.”

     My blush deepens and I stammer, “It wasn’t anything I did, really, and I’m sorry it was so difficult. I know that you didn’t have a choice in the matter. I shouldn’t have—.”

     “ _Kaiidth_. It was necessary, and we are both of us alive.”

     I attempt a smile, feeling unsettled, my headache now gone but the feelings that I brought with me into my quarters still strong and threatening to erupt. Tears prickle under my eyelids and I pray for my composure, telling myself to just hold on until he leaves, to not subject him to any more of my emotions, any more of my weakness, to protect him—.

     He moves again, soundlessly, and this time closer than before, his arms coming awkwardly around to encircle me, and the heat of his body is bliss. I exhale, letting him hold me, letting myself enjoy it. Just once.

     He finally pulls away and I feel tears on my cheeks, and his tunic is probably wet with them. I smile through it and as he turns to go, hands once more clasped smartly behind his back, I ask a final question. “Will you tell him?”

     He hesitates as the door opens, turning his head slightly. “I believe I shall, Christine.”

     He’s gone, and I’m alone again, and I indulge myself by letting the tears flow unimpeded. I tell myself that it was for the best, that I did the right thing, and I feel an impulse of fear that Kirk might not understand, followed quickly by exasperation as I remember the captain’s eyes as they followed Spock in sickbay. I’ve seen spouses watch each other like that; I always wished Roger had looked at me like that.

     My mind now feels completely my own again: no headache, no odd resonance, no false highs or lows. Perhaps Spock had corrected something when he touched me, or perhaps time had simply removed the last traces of the contact. I heave a deep breath and walk back to the bathroom, intent on washing my face and resting until Nyota arrives. I decide that I won’t tell her everything, and definitely won’t mention Spock’s visit just now. This is between him and me, and I wish it to remain so. I smile at my own reflection in the mirror, shaking my head at red-rimmed, swollen eyes and wondering, given Vulcan discretion and the requirements of command, if I’ll ever know for sure how the captain will answer. Time will tell; I’m certain. It always does.

 

THE END

 

For mightymads, who encouraged me to try a new perspective, and whose comments improved the original draft.

 

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, and I do not make any money from this.

 

 


End file.
